Silence. I was damn sure not going to say anything. She was the surprise guest of the hour. The very busy, had things to do, important woman. I could stand there all week without being affected in the slightest.
She cleared her throat, the sound one that reeked of tea and crumpets but I knew her background. Read a feature article in Glamour magazine that touted her as one of the most powerful women in Silicon Valley. She wasn’t a blue blood. Wasn’t even properly educated. Attended a community college. Worked as a fourth-grade teacher until 1997, when her nephew, one aforementioned Brant Sharp, built a computer in his basement. A computer that made IBM’s latest creation look like a bowl of Jell-O. A computer that made his parents drop every future plan and invest their savings in Team Brant. He was young. Eleven. Needed a chaperone. So Aunt Jillian quit her job and hitched her wagon to Brant. Lived off food stamps and her savings account in a spare bedroom at Brant’s house for two years. Then she brokered their first deal and all of the Sharps moved their bank account decimals seven places to the right.
“I’d like you to stay away from Brant.”
Wow. Not what I was expecting. I had half expected her to pull out an appointment book and pencil in our wedding date while the summer calendar was clear. I swallowed a mouthful of water before speaking. “Excuse me?”
“Brant doesn’t need the distraction of a relationship right now.” She remained in place, standing on my floor on an island of Jillian, back still straight, stick still firmly wedged somewhere up that ass.
Did the woman know he used whores? “That seems like a decision for Brant to make.” I leaned on the counter, met her eyes steadily. You’re in my house. Step the fuck back. “Last I checked he’s not eleven years old anymore.”
Her eyes flickered, as if the information I shared was secret, not something known by anyone ready to part with $3.99. Her jaw tightened. “Don’t assume that you know him, or anything about me just because you did an Internet search. He is not built for a relationship, does not have time for you. I’m coming here, woman to woman, to ask you to stay away.”
“And I’m telling you, woman to woman, that it’s none of your business.” Any interest I had had in Brant was quadrupling with every word out of this woman’s mouth. I had smiled and obeyed for twenty-five years. I wasn’t about to be put in my place by this schoolmarm.
She moved, dug in her purse, a cream Hermes that I had in green. A laugh bubbled in my throat when I saw what her hand pulled out.
“You’re going to try and bribe me to stay away from him?” Her hand froze at my laugh, hard eyes swinging to me mid-click of her pen. “We spent one night together. He’s not preparing to propose.”
“It’s better to be safe than sorry,” the woman said stiffly. “Plus, at this point, there are no emotions involved. Walking away should be, in your case, a breeze. You are a smart girl. I’m sure you’ll make an intelligent decision.” She signed her name to a check she had already filled out, ripping it from the deck with the subtlety of a hyena, then thrust it out, as if it might burn her fingers if kept any longer in her touch.
I didn’t look at it; I held my gaze on her face until she looked up in exasperation, our eyes meeting over the granite island. “I appreciate the visit, but I think it’s time for you to leave.”
“It’s for your own good, sweetheart. You don’t want Brant. He’s damaged goods.” The acidic words were said with a dash of affection, the nicety not minimizing the truth in her eyes. She believed it. She set down the check. Pushed it forward with her pen.
“I don’t need your money.”
“A million dollars never hurt anyone, dear.”
I dropped my eyes to the check, surprised to see her name across the top. One million dollars. To me, it meant an extra vacation home. Maybe a condo in Colorado. Nothing that would change my life. But it was still a significant amount of money. Especially to be written off her personal account. “It’s worth a million dollars to you for him to stay single? Or is it me that you have such personal disdain for?”
That flicker of gray again. A tropical storm of emotions in this small woman. “Trust me. I want what’s best for Brant. And, for you.”
I pushed back the check. “No thanks. And it has nothing to do with Brant. I’m not going to be bought off from anything.”
She chuckled, the sound anything but jovial. Instead, it scraped long, dead fingernails down my spine, reducing me, in one squeeze of her vocal chords, to a misbehaving child. “Oh, how easy it is for a child of wealth to take the moral high ground. I imagine, had you had to work a day in your life, that you would react differently. If it were your money that built this house. That purchased your ocean-front view.”
I stared at her, bit back words of retort that didn’t really hold any substance. She was right. Didn’t mean I was going to let her stand here, in my damn house, and make me feel guilty for it. I watched as she ripped the check in half. Let the pieces of it scatter to the counter.